Seal the Urge Which Ensues With Brass Wires
by Of Glorious Plumage
Summary: Erik, and Erik and Charles, and Erik and Emma and Wade.  This is their beginning, and their end.  This is the world reshaped.  THIS IS ALSO ABOUT ME, WADE, AKA DEADPOOL, AND IT IS A MODERN!ASSASSIN!POWERED AU. WITH ME IN IT. YAY!
1. Prelude start

**Disclaimer: X-Men is owned by Marvel**

This will be Charles/Erik. Eventually.

Inspired by a prompt from Zimothy on her Tumblr. Title from Mumford & Sons, "I Gave You All". (I am also not sure if this will be serious or crack-ish, or both. Probably both. Also, I should probably finish my Star Trek WIPs before starting any new stories, but...oh, well.)

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><p>I don't usually go into his mind, for I'm far to fond of my sanity to risk it, but I've picked my way inside enough to know that Erik Lehnsherr wishes, sometimes, that he hadn't met Wade Wilson while in drag. <em>Of course, that statement is only true if "sometimes" actually means "every single waking moment of his life and occasionally in non-nightmare dreams and also in a few of the nightmares". I have that effect. <em> Did I give you permission to narrate? _Nope, but I'm far wittier than you, Ice Titties. And more handsome. And I probably look even better in that bikini. But the boots might make my thighs look fat. Do you think I look fat? Oh, God, I'm fat, aren't I? Pay no attention to the man behind the mask! He is not fat! He is not making allusions to movies that aren't rated NC-17 for violence and/or sex which are the only things he watches because those are manly movies for manly men and he is a manly man! (I'm sorry Bea, dah-ling, I'll have a "Golden Girls" marathon soon and make it up to you.) Pay attention to Her Most Royal Majesty, the Frigid Queen. (And I bet she is frigid, if you know what I mean __nudge nudge titter titter wink wink.__) You should probably start over now. _

I don't usually go into his mind, for I'm far to fond of my sanity to risk it, but I've picked my way inside enough to know that Erik Lehnsherr wishes, sometimes, that he hadn't met Wade Wilson while in drag. Compared to the maelstrom of anguish that makes up his inner mind and the plating of determination and cold ruthlessness he plates it in, that particular regret is one of the most positive thoughts he has. _Yes, we get it, Princess, he's even more fucked-up than you, and probably "icier" – and what is it with you people? I mean – I saw _you _smile once or twice, but he just rearranges his face so it looks like he's going to tear your jugular out. With his teeth. _

He had no issues with the wig, dress, or fishnets, and needed less practice to walk steadily in the heels than most women do, but he was not amused when he returned to HQ and was greeted thusly by our new recruit:

"Wow, you're Magneto, aren't you? Heh, Magneto – Mags – Maggie. You make a good Maggie. Hey! Maggie! Wanna come over to my place later, girl?"

Those words were accompanied by the few pelvic thrusts Wilson had time to preform before Magneto threw him through the wall with his swords.

It's been six years and Magneto and Deadpool are a terrifyingly brilliant team, Lehnsherr and Wilson are as close to being friends as two emotionally scarred people can be, and there are still incidents of extreme property and personal damage over the use of the name Maggie. _Yup. You know, just yesterday he put a knife in my eye because he got a letter addressed to Mrs. Maggie Wilson. It's like he can't acknowledge his feminine side OR our epic bond. Maybe we should get him on Oprah. Or Dr. Phil. I like Oprah better – she's so amazing and smart and motivational – but Dr. Phil is a _doctor_. Or we could get him to talk to both of them. Or he could watch all the cute kitten videos on the internet! I saw this really adorable one earli – I MEAN I WAS WATCHING PORN. ME? FUZZEH THINGS? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? (Hey, you, look up "never give up kitty" – awwwwwwww, look at that little guy….)_

Erik Lehnsherr and Wade Wilson are an unstoppable force – I only wonder who is strong enough to be their immovable object, their balance, the wall they will throw themselves against. And I wonder if the world will survive such a clash.

_Weeeeeell, maybe you and I can be an object. We could have kinky sex. I know you like it. What? Why are you looking at me like that? HEY! I liked my balls where they were! Fuck. It's going to take at least an hour for those to grow back. How about we just keep narrating together? I'm flattered by your attention, but I just don't think of you as anything other than a co-narrator. I know it's hard for you, but you must ignore your feelings for me. _

_Speaking of narrating, I'm kind of missing my boxes. They were yellow; I like yellow. (We all live on a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, in an octopus's garden with our paperback writers back in the USSR…dah dah umm…Hey, Jude, hey, Eleanor, hey, Prudence, will you still love me if I take LSD…la dah…want a revolution…um… forgot the rest of the lyrics….) _

_But, see, this is what I do for you: white page, internet, fanfiction. Oh, wait, shit, I really didn't want to have to explain all this to Her Bitchiness – thanks for nothing, you seem like a sympathetic reader, get me talking, and now I have to lecture about the levels of reality as you perceive it and the fourth wall and meta-everything and that utterly horrible movie they made where they SEWED MY MOUTH SHUT. Seriously, who okayed that idea? _


	2. Prelude rising

Our acquaintance progresses from murder attempts to death threats to deadly looks and interacting only when necessary. He knows I can rip his mind apart. He suspects I can do it without him realizing.

Perhaps I can.

Every time he thinks of me, I choke on his suspicion and it feels so sweet. (I don't invade; I make no move but to smirk at him. This is a game.)

He kills Sebastian Shaw and offers me a place on the band of mercenaries he runs with. He knows that I was not working with Shaw entirely of my own choice, and he knows that I have people I want to see neutralized. He also knows that I was not working with Sebastian entirely against my will, and he knows he needs to watch me. (He plays our game well – Sebastian taught him that, at least, though I cannot help thinking that Sebastian would still live if he had kept his protégé only a little closer.)

I enjoy this life. Killing is a business, and I had always expected to become the CEO of something. I can see now how our future will unfold:

We will no longer be a collection of glorified murderers, loyal only when paid to be, and little more than whores (sex and death – both can be bought and sold – sex and death at the core of human nature, in the depths of our minds, and I feel them whispering in the dark).

We will become a corporation; consolidate our assets, work in teams, collaborate with governments. We will not have a monopoly on assassination; there are other cooperative groups, and many, many single agents, but we will grow from his ragged group and my contacts into an international power.

But that is the future.

This is our past together:

He does not trust me and he paints his mind into a corner. He does not trust me and so he keeps me close but he keeps me close and therefore he cannot trust me.

_can she hear this has she changed my mind will she if she does when she does will I be able to tell how much of this is me is she letting me keep my doubts as a way to assuage my doubts can she hear this_

(I am a better at this than he. I have made one move, while he has made moves and counter-moves and boxed himself into a corner of paranoia. I am winning.)

And this is our present, our first true step together:

I am tired of our game, bored with my own inactivity. I consider, for a moment, tearing through his consciousness, taking him apart. He has so many secrets, so many hidden bits – I have not yet come close to understanding him despite how he shouts in the silence of his mind. I know almost nothing about him. I could…. But, afterwards, I'd be bored again and he would not feel nearly as vibrant as he does now. (I had a doll, when I was a child, who could talk. I removed her head and limbs and used my father's pocketknife to carve carefully into her chest. Inside was the electronic mechanism which, when jostled, would produce noise. I unscrewed it, took out the batteries, removed the face of the speaker, and sorted carefully through the wires, studied the rudimentary recoding device. I was able to overwrite it: I made my doll say that she was my sister, and that she loved me very much. Despite my care in dismantling her, I was never able to put her back together.)

So I make a physical move. I know what men like. I know what I'm good at. I think he would appreciate it more if I take a direct approach. Sebastian enjoyed the chase (the coy looks, my hand drawing attention to my mouth, one ankle over the other, the bones of my wrist in the light and my veins under his fingers).

We are staying in one of Sebastian's old hideouts. It is opulent and hidden and almost too small for our group (Azazel and Janos and I joined by him and Angel and Victor) with all their minds pressing on mine. I follow him to his room. He knows I am behind him, but does nothing until we are out of the hallway and then I cannot breathe for the length of metal wrapped around my throat. I stay in my flesh-form, a weakness, a signal that I will not hurt him (physically), and stretch as I am able with my head held straining upwards until I can slide my underwear off from under my skirt.

It is a blunt invitation, as is his style, and he does not mistake it.

Then he is close, so close, and I cannot see our surroundings (so bare, so bare, he cleared the room out, functional but empty) behind him and I can feel his heat and his breath and I should be thrilled for my plan, my move, this means I win the game and even with Sebastian I sometimes enjoyed it, our carnal interludes, but there is only exhaustion now. (I am tired of this game.)

He laughs. It is the first time I have heard him do so and it is not a happy sound, or one I want to hear directed at me.

I can breathe again as he replaces the metal with his hand under my chin and tells me, quietly, that I usually act so dignified even if I do wear slut clothes. His mind is shadowed, withdrawn and I do not read further than that.

He is across the room when I open my eyes (I do not remember closing them), a bottle of Azazel's vodka in one hand, a shot glass and a mug in the other. He lets me have the mug.

The first thing he asks me to do is put my underwear back on. We are in the grey zone before dawn and in the space before the beginning of the rest of our lives and I have not done more than brush the surface of his mind in the months we've worked together and the bottle is almost empty when Erik Lehnsherr asks me to help him guard his mind. (It is his move - and an opening for me, a large one - but I no longer know which game we're playing.)


	3. Prelude risen

A-fucking-dorable. Emma and Maggie sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Barf. Oh, I did that once, barfed, and a rainbow came up! No, I'm not shitting you – it really happened. Toad dared me to eat crayons, and then Lance The Ava-lance said he'd give me a dollar if I did, so I did, and then Diamond Ass said we were grown assassin ninjas not preschoolers (not her actual words, of course, she's so boring) but it was too late because I had already eaten them.

I didn't barf from the crayons, bee-tee-dubs. I'm not a wimp. I barfed because Maggie cooked dinner that night and, take it from me, that dude seriously needs to reevaluate what's edible and what's not. Spending a decade of your life hunting some douchbag down doesn't give you a free pass from learning how to provide for yourself. I locked him in a room with a TV and a Paula Deen tape, but he broke out and dug up all the skeletons in my garden and broke them – they hadn't even bloomed yet!

Oh, bodies don't make bone flowers?

Damn.

Right. Back to…where we we? Right! Emma and Maggie and their epic origin story. Emma spent over a thousand words last chapter being all melodramatic and crap. Let's recap this shit the Deadpool way!

Maggie was tortured by Kevin Bacon, Maggie killed Kevin Bacon after angsting around the world for a few years, Maggie and Emma were enemies and then frenemies and then I joined them and now it's a while later and they rule the assassin ninja pirates together. Emma does more finances and planning and negotiation now, but Maggie still does fieldwork and we work for humans but I totally think Emma and Maggie have a plan to take over the world for mutantkind but they haven't done it yet so we're just killing people and being one big happy family. Mostly. Lance never gave me that dollar, that brat.

Now we're all in the present together! Yay!

Know what I'm doing now? I'm writing the script for my movie. It's going to be epic, and Ryan Reynolds is going to look sexy, sexy, I'm bringing sexy back, you mother's boys don't know how to act. I'm going to write me killing people and using my swords and getting lots of money and having orgies with tons of girls and –

_You are so crass. _

HEY HEY OUT OUT OUT. OUT OF MY HEAD. MY HEAD – MIIIINE. ICICLE NO TOUCHY.

_Go get suited up. You and Magneto have a mission. _

Ugh, telepaths, so convenient, but so invasive.

See you humans next chapter! That's when everything gets real dramatic.


	4. Prelude falling

Erik has a pattern he follows when he wants to make an important announcement. He finds me, interrupts me, says his piece, and leaves. Calmly. The first time he did this was in 2005, a month after our truce, four months after he killed Sebastian. I was showering.

I had sensed him moving down the hallway, but was surprised when he opened the bathroom door. Before I could flay his mind apart and leave him catatonic, he said, loud enough to be heard over the water, "I'm starting a group, a brotherhood of sorts. A brother-and-sister-hood, I suppose. Of _Meuchelmördern_, ah, assassins. We have already killed for money, and we know others whose professions are not quite legal. From the shadows, we could change the world." He pulled back the shower curtain and looked me in the eyes. "You are going to help me."

Then he left. The water drummed against my back and shampoo dripped down my face; I had to wipe a particularly large clump of foam from my brow to properly glare at Azazel when he passed by the still-open door and snickered at me.

A year later, I awoke with a start at two thirty in the morning to find Erik sitting on the edge of my bed, staring intently at me. "Shaw was right: mutants are superior beings. We are strong. We are the future. Humans will react badly when they discover us. They will fear us, and hate us, and hurt us." For a second, I felt his fear. "The Hellfire Club will remain in place, but I will speak with all the mutants in our ranks, and anyone else we find – we can protect our kind from the humans. Emma, will you help me claim our rightful place in the world?"

He didn't give me a chance to answer before he left, but I don't suppose he needed to.

The third time, I was in my office, briefing Fred Dukes on an upcoming mission, when Erik flung the door open, his face almost comically blank despite the visible tension in the tendons of his neck and the stiff set of his shoulders. Behind him, Wilson _– Oh. My. God. Sparkle-face – we have codenames for a reason. Because they're AWESOME. Call me "Deadpool", or "Sexy", or "Sir McAwesome-pants", or, yeah, anything like that. Or we can have a race – how fast you can turn to diamond versus how fast I can shoot you. _

Behind him, Wilson (_ugh, bitch, EAT LEAD) _was giggling maniacally, never a good sign. Dukes hunched in on himself in a futile effort to look small.

"I have children," he said, completely monotone, eyes focused on a point behind me, "Twins. Toddlers. Children. They can't live here. There has to be a house on sale in a nice suburb, with a yard, and three bedrooms. Find it. Buy it. Use my savings account. You know the PIN."

"Aww, Maggie's a mommy…AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…" Wilson was choking for air.

So when I see Erik walking towards me now with _that_ non-expression on his face, his thoughts carefully fuzzy, I turn away from my debate with Wilson about how a "My Little Zombie-Pony" theme is inappropriate for interior decoration and prepare to organize another vigilante group or relocate more children (two remarkably similar endeavors, really).

"Emma. I. Emma."

"Yes, yes! That's amazing! She, Emma; you, Maggie; me, Captain Deadpool. Can you say – GAH! Emma! Stop raising that eyebrow at me! Your face is scary…scary scary face."

"Emma. There's a man. I think he's human…. I took the kids out for lunch. He was at the deli. He smiled at me. He might have poisoned me. I can't breathe. Emma. I can't breathe and my stomach is – He had blue eyes."

There is no emotion on his face. I do not read his thoughts. I could. I should.

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><p><em>You know, I don't know why Frosty didn't like my idea. Who doesn't like zombies and ponies? There's blood and rainbows and blood and sparkles! And blood! The turned ponies would be all "MAAAANES" (Heh, see what I did there? Brains and manes? Geddit?) It'd be "My Little Pony: Zombies are Magic" – is that not the BEST IDEA EVER? FUCK YEAH IT IS. <em>

_C'mon, all you Bronies – back me up here._


End file.
